Winewits

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Uh oh, winter is nigh. I am feeling restless and angry and self destructive again. The only thing that makes any sense to me right now is to go to Thailand, get a painful and badly drawn tiger tattoo, then completely devote myself to Muay Thai, the "Art of Eight Limbs," and kick someone in the throat.

"We have had gladness in welcoming everyone who has interest in Muay Thai training in Thailand camp. Therefore, we have had confidence in Muay Thai as fight art in standing style being the best in the world because it has had using fist, foot, elbow and locking and hitting with the knee. We have had experience in teaching to foreigner such as England, Sweden, blah, blah, America, Canada, etc."

Perfect. I have gladness and have had confidence that this fighting art, standing style, is right for me. One month (with air conditioning) is ฿900 Baht or $256 American. I've got the vacation time and the ฿900 Baht...Phuket, I'm doin' it.

Monday, April 25, 2011

I can not believe how many true stories I know and this is the absolute latest and truest. I have a friend that I'll call "Lina" because that is her name. She lives in Mississippi through no fault of her own. Before you start making assumptions about her you need to know that she has a very above average life. Great husband, great kids, beautiful home, but unfortunately no pets. Recently she told me that she has actually paid a great deal of money (so much money that she refused to disclose the amount) for her son and her husband to go on a "field trip" to Arkansas and be mistreated! Yes, this is real.

Her son is enrolled in the "gifted and talented" program at his school because he is viciously bright. He will grow up to be very rich and very cruel but he will provide for his mother, even from prison. Dad and son are actually going to an undisclosed location in Arkansas (horror!) where they will be divided into two groups, the "Rich(es)" and the "Poor(s)." I have created those category names because I don't remember the real category names BUT the premise is absolutely TRUE. So, after being transported to a remote spot in Arkansas (is there any other kind of spot in Arkansas?) they will be randomly assigned to Team Rich or Team Poor. The Poor(s) will be given nothing. They will have to beg, borrow, scheme and steal to get what they need. Their shelter will be substandard and where they "relieve" themselves is limited only by their own imaginations and understanding of germ theory.

On the other hand, the Rich(es) will be treated to a Five-Star Arkansas experience and all that beautiful dream entails...

Can you begin to see how this is going to end with some fat kid dead?

Here's the scene as I would really, really like it to occur: The "Rich(es)" will be strolling around in dinner dress, sipping their potent cocktails. They will engage in good natured joshing and boasting about their Alma Maters while tossing around the ol' pig skin. Speaking of pig skin...out of the woods comes one "Poor"" with a sharpened stick - he is quickly followed (but only over a very short distance) by a hungry, wheezing pack of "Poors" that haven't eaten since lunch. One of the slower and heavier of the "Rich(es)", a dad, is captured and made to drive the the entire horde to the Frosty Hut and buy Bar-B-Q pork sandwiches with Marlboro Lite sauce and milk shakes made with with real ice cream and NASCAR-sponsored chewing tobacco.

Back at Rich Town/Poor Town, the Rich(es) have their staff collect the pointed sticks that were dropped when the marauding Poor(s) set them down to use their inhalers. The weapons become quaint, rustic skewers to spear artisnal marshmallows. These treats are perfectly browned with tiny propane torches held by staff specially screened for their trigger finger strength and docile behavior. Upon the "Poor(s)" return, everyone gathers and laugh, laughs, laughs about the earlier misunderstanding. The South is polite country and one of the moms drawls,"Y'all wouldn't eat a human bein' now ,would y'all?!"

What will actually happen on this important and expensive social experiment? Stay tuned.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Today I was reminded of a couple of hard truths about painting - interior, not exterior - that is too horrible to contemplate. This information is mostly for the kids but even the more experienced can benefit from a timely reminder. Someday soon you will live in a space that you will want to put your mark on with paint. I am not talking about your crappy college apartment that you spackle with toothpaste and slap on the cheap whitewash at 3:00 a.m. - that just makes me mad. How long have you known you were moving?! I swear to God you had better get the security deposit back - don't even come home this summer if you lose that security deposit. Stay up all night and finish cleaning that dump or go to India and find a job to earn back that security deposit!

OK, here is the DIY painting advice that will save you a river of bitter, bitter tears:

It will not be "kinda fun" to do it yourself

If you think you're bad enough to mix your own colors - write down the colors

You can not get it done with just one gallon - ever

When you start to run out of your "custom paint" you will need to skip the parts of the wall that are obscured by furniture. Others may never know you didn't paint behind the Armoire but you do, you do

When you pull the painter's tape off the ceiling don't let it fall on your head. It's really sticky and it will painfully rip your hair out from the roots

All the period detail you find so charming? Nooks and freakin' crannies

I hope you buy in bulk because somebody is losing their toothbrush to clean those nooks -n- crannies out before you paint them

When descending a ladder, never assume you are on the last step - verify visually

Your custom (impossible to duplicate) color is indistinguishable from the color you thought wasn't quite right

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

The Shamrock Shake (SS) arouses emotion. For me, it heralds the coming of spring and better days. My memories of its minty excellence become more distant every year. It seems the corporate McOverlords have decided to tone it down. I am aging and my senses are diminishing but I would swear - in a court of law - that the SS is taking on a bland limey flavor. I have no proof of this except my own expert opinion. Opinions - there are strong ones about the Absinthe of fast food. The "green fairy" is not everyone's idea of a good time.The annual reemergence of the SS causes some to swoon with nostalgia and others to recoil in disgust. I will not change your mind. Go get yourself a Frappuccino.

Uncle O'Shakey (or something like that) was the brand mascot. He was essentially the Grimace but he was green and had an artless Irish accent. Back in the 70s we loved foam rubber characters. What did we know? These kids now only accept the CGI, the avatar, the hologram. Today, the only place to see a foam rubber character is at minor league sporting event. Even then they are unrecognizable beast-folk, half man, half swordfish. They don't make sense, not like Grimace or Uncle O'Shakey.

Now, I'm talking to you Shamrock Shake, it's just you and me here. I know it's crass but I must mention the obvious "work" you've had done recently. We all know how old you are, Shamrock Shake. The hipper-than-thou cup, whipped topping , with a cherry(!?) - that's just embarrassing. I'm no stranger to having nuerotoxin injected directly into MY FACE, but I walked right by you. You are almost unrecognizable. I still love you - look at me, Shamrock Shake - I LOVE YOU. I am just concerned for you and a little disappointed for me. Forget it, I can tell you're not listening.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Flipping around the cable-sphere I stopped on the new Oprah channel called, OWN, as in, " I, Oprah, OWN the air you breathe. " On my TV was a two and half hour epic devoted to a day in the life of the world's greatest singer, Celine! Dion. I discovered that Celine!days are actually two weeks in length instead of the more vulgar 24 hours apportioned to the rest of us. So on this particular "day" she spent the morning riding in a golf cart touring three of her eight indoor PGA golf courses with her husband/manager, René Angélil and their combined DNA, René-Charles. For lunch they went to Africa where they were met on the tarmac by a frail Nelson Mandela and the Soweto Blind Children's Chorus. After handily winning a VH1-style Diva sing off against ALL the children and Mandella, she was off to safari. On safari, only specially selected albino animals encrusted with genuine Swarovski crystal were allowed to prowl within the sight line of la famille du Angélil. Early evening found her dancing like a scarecrow and displaying her trademark vocal pyrotechnics in Abu Dhabi, Brussels and Papau New Guinea. There was only time for the shortest of visits to the Vatican to have René-Charles hair trimmed.
I will never know if they they sleep on piles of cotton balls picked daily by children of the world's remaining royalty because Dr. Robot walked in and changed the channel (with out asking) to a show about Bigfoot sightings and spent the next 28 minutes yelling at the TV. Believe me, I am as disappointed as you..

Saturday, February 5, 2011

My husband, J. Maximus Robot, is a scientist/adventurer. Shortly, he will be leaving for several weeks to go to a jungle in Central America. He has a relationship with the government of the moment so he will have the added benefit of being accompanied by armed security. I know what your thinking, "Are you going too?" Regretfully, no. Robot doesn't blink at wading chest deep in water, hacking vines with a machete or exchanging gun fire with narco-traffickers in the jungle. I do not know why he likes these things, they make me terribly nervous, but I would never dream of stopping him. I enjoy quaint hotels that offer a variety of good jelly at breakfast. He enjoys being damp without end and eating whatever can be caught, cooked and eaten on a tortilla.

While he is gone there is the problem of feeding his fish and other crawlies. I will throw some flake food in a tank but I am not tearing the legs off of crickets or feeding any thing thawed sea monkeys. So now he is trying to find minders for His children. I have enough to worry about including our dog - I love her but she has a very high need for attention - and the cat that he has allowed to become a half & half fiend. It's 'bout to kick off, y'all - hold on to your wigs.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Winter is hard. That is why I did a preemptive post about it in August. I warned you, I prepared you. I am using Lamaze breathing to avoid breaking down nervously and becoming hysterical. Winter, like alcohol, is not inherently bad - it just encourages me to be more of what I should not be. Winter lends legitimacy to my most phobic behavior by providing me cover for a few months. I spend hundreds of hours retreating to the far corner of my couch, watching movies and making up songs about and for my dog. So now you know why I have not been posting - obviously I am very, very busy.